


I liked you when your soul was bare

by dharma_club



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2015-2020, A little Dark?, Breaking Up & Making Up, Crossdressing, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Open Relationships, Public Sex, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22964788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dharma_club/pseuds/dharma_club
Summary: Dylan can still feel it, probably will until his dying breath; this cruelwant, loving and hating Mitch for his needfulness, how he constantly seemed to demand to be touched, filled, fucked, how Dylan adored being the one to give him that, how he can’t stomach the thought of sharing him.
Relationships: Mitch Marner/Auston Matthews (very minor), Mitch Marner/Dylan Strome, Others mentioned
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51
Collections: The Dylan Strome Celebration 2020





	I liked you when your soul was bare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fersurebud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fersurebud/gifts).



> idk, tbh. I wanted to write a "psychologically bonded but not in an a/b/o way" fic and here we are.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, Liz, and it’s not too depressing!!
> 
> Title is from Dar Williams' "As Cool As I Am".

**2015-2016**

Mitch is being infuriatingly obvious, and Dylan rolls his eyes, draws the cold beer bottle to his lips and tries to hide his annoyance, hoping he can stop himself from doing something he’ll most likely come to regret by drawing the beer bottle to his lips, continues to stare at Mitch laugh at something ten meters away, completely unaware of Dylan.

It’s just over one a.m. and the loud music from the speakers at Brinksy’s billets has just dropped to low melodic tones. Dylan doesn’t understand how a nice suburban family lets someone throw a party for no reason, however small. He understands even less how half the Knights’ team managed to attend the party. It makes him feel uneasy, a little angry even, at how careless they're being, crossing the rules like that. It takes everything he has not to march to Mitch and shout at him for taking that sort of risk, typically thoughtless and brash.

He feels his anger like a lump in his throat, a bitter dissatisfaction coloring everything around him, overshadowing even the Otters winning only a few hours ago. How Mitch looked after the game, meeting Dylan’s eyes and mouthing “later”, his eyebrows raised in challenge. 

Dylan hasn’t seen him since the season started, both of them back in the O for another year while Connor and Jack get to be a part of the big show. He wasn’t ready to just be ignored for the entire night.

“What’s–,” Brinksy starts asking, leaning into Dylan and trying to follow his gaze. He stops when he notices the object of Dylan’s annoyance. “Oh.”

Mitch is sitting on the couch with Travis and Tkachuk, a happy, open smile plastered on his too-wide mouth as Travis gestures drunkenly about something or other. Tkachuk seems to be trying to keep up with whatever the two of them are excited about, but he looks obviously, painfully bored. His hand is curled proprietarily around Mitch’s thigh, his fingers lying infuriatingly on the inner seam of Mitch’s sweats. 

Dylan doesn’t know if he’s allowed to feel this way, this burning need to go and punch Tkachuk in his stupid face until he realizes he doesn’t have the right to put his hands on Mitch. Dylan doesn’t think he has the right to feel this way. He doesn’t know if he should even acknowledge this nebulous _thing_ between them that’s developed over the summer. 

He just knows he misses that version of Mitch, sunburnt and laughing quietly, curled into Dylan after some spectecularly filthy sex. He wants to kiss Mitch again until he’s breathless and desperate and Dylan’s. 

Brinksy sighs. “Stop staring, it’s creepy.”

He pulls Dylan away and towards the den down the hall, probably hoping to further drown away the disappointment that must be written all over Dylan’s face. And so Dylan tries to chase the sour taste of resentment away with more beer, lets Brinksy and Kyle crush him in CoD. His mind is clotted with that image, Tkachuk and his overgrown hand on Mitch’s thigh, holding him close, making sure he doesn’t go anywhere.

He vaguely notices he’s got a new beer when his mind wanders further into how much more of Mitch had Tkachuk actually had touched. What had Mitch permitted? Did he beg him for it like he did Dylan? Did he go down on his knees for Tkachuk in the Knights’ locker room? Had he let Tkachukfuck him? He must’ve, Mitch is too much of a slut to pass on any opportunity to be stuffed full, and–

Did they kiss? Did they sit wrapped around each other all day long and just explore each other’s mouths? Mitch would probably like that. He likes kissing, likes it when his lips turn puffy and sensitive, he–

Dylan takes a deep breath and sands up, from the couch. He wanders dumbly to the kitchen, trying to clear his mind. He shouldn’t be here anyway, should go home and forget about this wretched night. Just forget about Mitch and his infuriatingly beautiful eyes, and how amazing his mouth looks stretched around Dylan’s cock. How he moans when Dylan touches him, like he doesn’t want to, but can’t help it–

“Hey,” Mitch is the one to interrupt that train of thought, appearing next to Dylan with an unsuspecting smile. “Where were you all night?”

Dylan stares. Mitch looks–, he looks happy to see Dylan, doesn’t wait before he tries to fit himself against Dylan’s body, arms reaching outwards and up, tugging Dylan down and tilting his own chin up to be kissed. Dylan does. Force of habit, or gravity, or just the yet to be named, unparalleled force of nature that is Mitch Marner.

Mitch sighs into the kiss, his tongue licking against Dylan’s lips, and then into Dylan’s mouth. Warm, and wet, and soft. Mitch. Lovely Mitch, who found Dylan and wants to be kissed by him. Except–

“Shouldn’t you be fucking Tkachuk?” Dylan asks, leaning back. He tries to sound challenging, or even angry, tries once again to find that hot rage within himself, which he so acutely felt only an hour ago.

“You’re drunk,” Mitch says, his tone somewhere between amused and mocking. And Dylan probably is, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn't’ matter at all, because Mitch is here, and–

“Marns,” Dylan suddenly needs him to know, to understand. And somehow his brain translates it into pushing Mitch against the fridge. “You’re so pretty.”

“Dylan,” Mitch huffs, but he doesn’t resist, doesn’t protest when Dylan bends his head and his knees, sucks Mitch’s nipple through his shirt, biting to make the small bud harden faster. “I can’t believe you want to. Here.”

“So pretty,” Dylan repeats, sliding his palms over Mitch’s training pants, feeling out his erection. He wants it, Dylan knows he does. Mitch moans breathlessly and slides his fingers through Dylan’s curls, as if to prove the point. Slut.

“Are you wet?” Dylan asks, unthinking. “I want–”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Mitch whispers, because he’s a <em>whore</em>. Because he does this on purpose, walking around wet and open, waiting for Dylan’s cock like a good little pet, like one of the girls always hanging around them in clubs, desperate to just get some future NHL dick.

Dylan kisses him quickly, bites at Mitch’s lip as a reward and then soothes it with his tongue. From there it’s easy to pick Mitch up, hoister him up like he’s nothing, his body caught between Dylan’s and the fridge.

“Did he fuck you today? Did he fuck you in the showers? Maybe it was more than just him,” Dylan whispers into Mitch’s ear cruelly.

“Dyl,” Mitch sighs, his fingers digging painfully into Dylan’s shoulder.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Dylan continues. “You’d like coming to to me wet and full of come and ask me to fuck you again until it fucking hurts.”

Maybe it happened. Maybe Mitch just got horny and spent some time pushing three of his own fingers up his ass, thinking of Tkachuk, or Dvorak, or any of the other guys he probably lets fuck him in London, when he’s needy and empty and away from Dylan.

He’s so easy for Dylan now, thighs spread as wide as Dylan will move them, moving as directed to sink slowly down, impossibly tight around Dylan. His hands slide, greedy and shaking, over Dylan’s neck and through his hair and he’s trying to keep still but he’s shivery and overwhelmed. 

Dylan kisses under his jaw, gentle and for the first time since Mitch appeared it suddenly dawns on him they’re in Brinksy’s kitchen and there are twenty of their teammates in the next room and Dylan’s hips jerk at that, turned on and fiercely satisfied. He spitefully hopes it’s Tkachuk who walks in on them.

Mitch groans in his arms, impatient.

“Fuck you, Mitch, you always do this to me,” Dylan almost sobs into Mitch’s hair, and it would be almost pathetic, except he’s finally angry again now. “No one else can do this to me.”

Mitch just nods, one hand gripping Dylan’s hair tightly like a vice. Whatever anyone else may think, there’s beauty in this, in how they need each other, violent and incandescent, their bodies shattering and mending together again and again in each other’s arms.

It doesn’t matter they’re in Brinksy kitchen, doesn’t matter who wins who loses, doesn’t matter their teams don’t want them yet when it’s just the two of them, just Dylan and Mitch, and–

“I fucking love you. I don’t ever want to have to see someone else fucking touching you,” Dylan groans out, unable to stop himself, punctuates the words with digging his fingers into the sensitive flesh of Mitch’s ass, openning him up even further.

“Yeah, okay,” Mitch promises, panting. “No one else. Just you, Dyl. Just yours. Please.”

They both know he’s lying, but Dylan can't focus on that right now.

“Just mine,” Dylan whispers and moves his hips in a particularly sharp thrust, making Mitch clench harder against him, his smaller frame completely dependent on Dylan now, clawing at Dylan’s shoulder as he waits for Dylan to move him up and down on his cock. He’s so good like this, small moans and whimpers escaping as Dylan continues ruthlessly fucking into him.

Brinksy does walk in on them then, cursing loudly, “What the hell?”

But Mitch just claws to Dylan harder. “No,” he sobs, something desperate in the way his legs hold onto Dylan. “Please– Just keep–.”

And Dylan does, laughing almost manically into Mitch’s collarbone. 

* * *

Dylan doesn’t even know if Mitch remembers promising he won’t sleep with anyone, or if he just forgets it, unnecessary it was just one more unnecessary filth, devoid of any meaning or care, one of the countless ways they provoked each other. Fact is, it doesn’t matter. Any promises that might have been made weren’t kept. Mitch sleeps with other people, sometimes, and Dylan loves him. It doesn’t matter.

They have one amazing year together. They lose miserably world juniors, but it almost doesn’t hurt as much, because Dylan can wrap his arms around Mitch after and kiss the tips of his freezing ears, promises to make it better and then try to make good on that promise in their hotel room. It’s a whole year of everyone in Dylan’s life knowing about Mitch and talking about him as Dylan’s boyfriend, it’s a summer Dylan spends by seeing Mitch every single day, discovering him, marvelling in his laugh, the way his voice goes soft and his fingers clench in in the bedsheets when Dylan kisses down the ridge of his back, how he tucks himself into a comma-like shape under Dylan at night, no matter how hot it gets in Dylan’s bedroom.

* * *

**2016-2017**

The next year doesn’t start great, with Dylan being sent back to the O. He calls Mitch almost immediately after he gets the news, then calls his mom instead when Mitch doesn’t pick up.

He texts Mitch the news before he gets on a flight instead, feeling helpless and cracked open. He thinks about how pathetic he probably looks to Mitch now, how insufferably inadequate he must look when compared to everyone else in Mitch’s life. He feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin, or punch the wall, or hold Mitch down and fuck him until he’s painfully scratching Dylan’s back.

He gets a text from Mitch when he lands in Chicago and then spends the layover trying to hide how gutted he feels to his boyfriend.

It only gets worse as the year goes by. They can’t talk about hockey without getting into a fight; Dylan can’t stand hearing about Mitch’s petty problems in Toronto and he hates the way Mitch tries to encourage him for succeeding in fucking Erie, as if being able to beat sixteen year olds is anything but deeply embarrassing at this point

He hates how excited Mitch gets about the stupidest shit, how fucking insecure Dylan gets when he is forced to watch Mitch do everything the both of them have dreamed about since they were kids. It feels too often like Mitch is trying to find reasons to be unhappy just so Dylan doesn’t have to be depressed on his own, which doesn’t help because Dylan is determined not to let any type of sadness, his own or Mitch’s, penetrate the layer of anger he’s built around himself, not when it’s the only thing keeping him standing most days.

“You’re so mean to me,” Mitch tells him quietly one night, and Dylan thinks how unfair it is his voice sounds different on the phone, how he can’t even tell if Mitch means it or not without seeing his face.

“Got used to everyone babying you on the Leafs?” Dylan huffs. He’s seen Mitch’s snaps, how he wraps his arms around Matthews or sits in Matt Martin’s lap, like an overindulged pet, all pleased and happy.

Mitch tells Dylan he misses him every night and Dylan buys him skimpy lingerie for Christmas; pink and soft, sends it to Mitch’s place in Toronto and then watches Mitch wear it and smile happily at the camera. Dylan promises to fuck him in it as soon as he’s home that summer.

* * *

It's over before the summer even starts. Mitch cries silently, his face obscured by his hands, body shaking as he sits across from Dylan. From this angle Dylan can see Mitch’s throat move, his adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to find the air to breathe through this. He can just barely make the dull pink mark on his jaw, where just a week ago Mitch cut himself shaving off his version of playoff scruff, and Dylan had tipped Mitch’s head up, bent his own knees and licked his skin clean. Their kisses tasted like copper when Mitch leaned his head further back to meet Dylan’s mouth.

It feels awful, unbearable, this sick, swooping fear that he is forever damaging something as tender as Mitch’s heart, and he can’t even reach out and touch him. He’s resolved not to, his nails digging into his palms, the pain nothing but a dull reminder that it would hurt ten folds more if he lets himself fall into the trap of offering any physical comfort.

There is nothing compassionate in how they touch each other and there never was, no sympathy, or solace, or relief. They were so careless when it started, too irresponsible, too passionate to care about the dents they were leaving on each other. But theirs is the only language they know, and softness was never a part of it, there is just too much pain in touching Mitch, too much sorrow in truly loving him in the only way Dylan knows how.

Mitch cries, and Dylan allows his heart to shatter just looking at him.

* * *

**2017-2018**

They try to be friends, but they don’t know how, Dylan feels like he's perpetually stuck in that moment when he told Mitch it was over. There are reasons they can’t be together, can never be happy with each other and it’s a special type of torture, to watch Mitch live his saparte life on the far edges of Dylan’s, constantly wonder if maybe, maybe things could’ve been different. Every group text, every IG comment feels foreign and too complicated, so much so that Dylan starts avoiding any interaction. Everyone around him keeps being weird about it, like it’s a fight, or like they’re angry. It’s not, they’re not, they’re just not together anymore, and after a while people catch on.

The have one angry facetime call that was supposed to be about finding a time too meet up, which they spend hurling insults at each other.

“Fuck, Dylan.” Mitch worries his lower lip between his teeth, both of them waiting for someone to speak after Dylan called Mitch _needy_. “Can’t you at least say that you miss me? No? I guess not.” he smiles sardonically. “You know, you refuse to say you loved me but I know for sure you loved fucking me.”

Dylan can’t do this with Mitch, just throw casual jabs until they’ve made each other bleed enough for the next few months. He needs Mitch to stop, needs him to go away, needs–

“Is this why you’re calling?” Dylan says, mockingly. “So I can fuck you? Is this how much of a slut you are, no one on the leafs willing–”

Mitch’s cheeks grow red, angry or annoyed, or both. “Fuck you, Dylan, don’t you dare–.”

“Gone through the roster already, did you,” Dylan continues, cruel and desperate for this to be over. “I’m sure Matthews would–”

“– you’re such a fucking asshole.” Mitch groans, crossing his hand over his chest, defensive yet determined. “I’m not fighting with you.”

Dylan has the most satisfying orgasm after that call, his hand on his dick, thinking about fucking Mitch's face. Dylan can still feel it, probably will until his dying breath; this cruel want, loving and hating Mitch for his needfulness, how he constantly seemed to demand to be touched, filled, fucked, how Dylan adored being the one to give him that, how he can’t stomach the thought of sharing him.

They somehow manage to avoid an in person collision for next foreseeable future; Dylan isn’t actively avoiding Mitch so he can only assume Mitch is trying very hard to avoid him, but that’s not something Dylan has the right to resent.

* * *

**2018-2019**

He does see Mitch until next summer. It’s so weirdly random Dylan doesn’t know what to do about it, he’s having lunch with his mom when he sees Mitch. Dylan’s in a better place, just mentally and hockey-wise, his body aching in a way that means he’s been pushing himself to succeed, and there’s unshakeable satisfaction in that.

He doesn't do anything, doesn’t react save to smile across the room at Mitch, tries to look encouraging and approving, Mitch raises a hesitant hand to do something that must be a wave but looks too awkward to really count. He’s bigger than Dylan remembers, a little taller and his shoulders significantly wider. Dylan wants to ask him if he’s doing okay, if his body image shit isn’t getting worse because of NHL training and demands, he wants to make sure he’s healthy and happy and has people who love him.

Dylan doesn’t get to do that, doesn’t even get to lean in and smell him in, not in a creepy way, but just for a second to make sure he still smells the same. It’s not like he has a right to those things anymore.

* * *

In the beginning Dylan had thought about calling Mitch at least once a week, remorseful and longing, pathetically heart-broken in the way only teenagers suffering their first heartbreak allow themselves to be. It shifted with time, missing Mitch isn’t something he’s actively done for years, but the thought of him still creeps in, sometimes.

He shouldn’t be thinking about Mitch at all. He’s been working hard all year, changing his mindset and his attitude, making sure people saw the positive of what he could and did achieve instead of some bitter, unfulfilled dreams of what people had once thought he would become. He should be feeling invigorated, exhilarated even, to finally show what he can do, prove some assholes in the Yotes front office wrong. And still, no matter where he is or who he is with, however he tries to resist it, it’s Mitch he sees when he closes his eyes.

It hurts, maybe even more than it did back when he was just making the decision, putting that distance between Mitch and himself, if only to protect them, too afraid they’ll grind at each other to their bare nerves if they didn’t stop. Dylan can still feel it, probably will until his dying breath; this cruel want, loving and hating Mitch for his needfulness, how he constantly seemed to demand to be touched, filled, fucked, how Dylan adored being the one to give him that, how he can’t stomach the thought of sharing him.

And yet, when they were really together, that year in juniors after they got drafted, it all just seemed to align. They’d spend hours just casually touching, sweaty skin, and bad hair be damned. Mitch would look up at Dylan when it was just two of them, his smile wide and satisfied. Precious Mitch, cherished Mitch, it seems impossible Mitch could have that with anyone else.

Mitch is the one who breaks the silence. Dylan gets a lot of calls and texts when he gets traded from family and friends, from teammates, old and new; empty congratulations and consolations, and a fair share of logistics. Chicago was always just a place to stop at, a natural layover between Toronto and wherever Dylan had to be that month, it was hard to suddenly think of it as the final stop.

Mitch doesn’t say anything, instead he just sends Dylan a video of himself riding Matthews. It’s not anything really, not the obscenity Dylan knows Mitch is unafraid of showing considering the type of snaps he used to get from him back in juniors. This one is just a close-up of Mitch’s face, his eyes closed and his lips painted a deep coral red. He looks like a mess, lipstick smeared and his face wet, a shining liquid smeared all over his face, Dylan doesn’t know if it's come, Auston’s, or Mitch’s, or their both, doesn’t know if it’s just snot, but the effect is the same, Mitch just looks dirty, covered with it, his lashes clamped shut. He looks disgusting and he’s beautiful and Dylan aches with the desire to put his hands on him the way he used to.

Dylan knows it’s Auston Matthews fucking Mitch, even thought he shouldn’t be able to say with any certainty just by the animalistic groans and sighs coming from behind Mitch in the video, but he knows it is because Mitch would know that’s more likely to sting. It’s background noises right now, Mitch angling the camera on himself, forcing Dylan to look at how shattered his looks, desperate, and on the pinnacle of pleasure, mouth open in a desperate moan.

There’s a specific rhythm to how Mitch rides Matthews, fast and whiney, they makes it look easy despite the mess, like this is exactly where Mitch is meant to be, used and half mindless with pleasure, looking ruined and so beautiful you can barely tell if he’s a boy, or a girl, or neither. Dylan doesn’t need to see it to know Matthews has a hand around Mitch’s waist, doesn’t need to be there to know Mitch was the one to arrange them just so, it’s clear exactly what game they were playing from the lipstick on Mitch lips and the smeared eyeliner around his eyes.

"Harder," Mitch moans, with a little shake of his head. "Please, Matts, mark me, bite me, anything. Please."

Matthews probably does something Dylan can’t see because it only takes a few moments for Mitch to start coming, his eyes flying open, dark and stormy, his irises impossibly wide and his body shaking. He does this thing, which he used to do, before, where he smiles and moans through it, and Dylan knows, knows Mitch is only doing it for show, for Auston or Dylan or someone else. It’s fake and rehearsed and Dylan hates how much he’s affected by it.

The video ends and Dylan is left bereft, feeling empty, and horny, and furious. He almost blocks Mitch’s number then, but he’s too much of a coward.

* * *

**Summer 2019**

Dylan isn’t sorry they broke up. A part of him still needs Mitch, probably always will, just this constant ache between his heart and his ribs, a reminder that there was something his had and he’s lost it. But the type of thing they had was never meant to last, too bright and too hard. Loving Mitch was too painful to contain, but missing Mitch was something Dylan could probably live with forever, maybe even be happy with.  
Trust Mitch to fuck it all up.

“Let me make you dinner tomorrow?” Mitch asks as soon as Dylan picks up the phone. Dylan tries to breathe evenly, it’s exactly what he deserves for taking a call without thinking or even looking at the caller ID.

Mitch’s face is everywhere this summer, endless rumors about his contract and where he’ll sign turning into poisonous whispers. It’s the first time in months since Dylan thought of Mitch, not since the one night he spent on Brinksy’s couch watching Leafs interviews and mindlessly cataloguing all the ways Mitch’s face looked different.

“I’m still in Chicago,” Dylan says, as if it’s the only reason this whole conversation makes absolutely no sense.

“Okay, I’ll come there,” Mitch insists, like it’s no big deal. Dylan still remembers how he used to whine about having to drive to Mississauga, but now catching a flight to Chicago to see someone he hasn’t talked to in years is not a big deal.

“Dyl?” Mitch prompts gently when the silence stretches for too long. Dylan forgot Mitch could sound like that when saying Dylan’s name. so hopeful and sweet.

Dylan breathes in deeply. He’s not sure where his head is at right now, just his heart beating wildly and deafening tension, his entire body coiled into knots, radiating danger, danger.

“You want to take me to dinner after three years?” he says, just repeating it out loud, to feel out the words’ shape in his mouth.

“I wasn’t the one –,” Mitch stops himself before he can get going. “I actually want to _make_ you dinner.”

“Why?” Dylan insists.

“What do you mean -,”

“Come on, you can’t just call out of the blue and say ‘dinner’ and expect me to drop everything–”

“You have plans?” Dylan can hear the worried tone in Mitch’s voice and feels a spark of grim satisfaction in the pit of his stomach.

“There could be someone else, Mitch.” He tells him.

“But there isn’t,” Mitch concludes, and he’s right. “Just one night with no questions asked, Dyl, please.”

Mitch says it like it’s important, like something actually depends on the answer Dylan is about to give. Dylan doesn’t know why he’s stalling, he was going to say yes from the moment he picked up the phone, from the very second he realized it was Mitch.

“One dinner or one night?” he asks, just to hear Mitch say it, to make him admit it’s better with Dylan’s than with anyone else he’s ever been with.

“Yeah, um. Both?”” Mitch replies, and Dylan knows he’s blushing on the other side, because he knows Mitch. Still does, forever will.

“Okay. Just one night,” Dylan agrees, a feeling of dread descending into his stomach.

* * *

They make arrangements over texts while Mitch books his flight and drives to the airport, and in the end Dylan reluctantly agrees to leave a key to his apartment with his doorman for Mitch to pick and go play Playstation at Tazer’s until eight, which is when Mitch deemed it acceptable for Dylan to be back. Mitch writes him ‘no questions’ and Dylan agrees, because the idea of talking about any of it makes him sick.

The very first thing Dylan notices when finally comes home is the apartment smells different. It’s not just the smell of food, but there’s something else, flowery and fresh.

“Hey,” he calls hesitantly, shutting the door behind him, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“Hey, babe,” Mitch calls cheerfully. Dylan stops in his tracks, they said no questions, but Dylan isn’t sure he can play this game with Mitch without losing his mind, he wonders if it really would be so much more terrible if he just asked Mitch to stop.

Mitch is standing next to the table, wearing some sort of nightdress thing, the fabric of it soft, shiny, and rich, hanging on two delicate straps from Mitch’s shoulders and decorated with intricate lace. He has tights or socks, or whatever you call them, on, their black fabric a stark contradiction to the pale skin of Mitch’s thighs, to the soft peach-like color of the dress he’s wearing.

“Dyl?” Mitch asks when Dylan does nothing, his voice shaking; his carefully painted eyes uncertain; and it’s that small crack in the facade of this thing Mitch created in Dylan’s brand new apartment that finally settles it, calms Dylan down and allows him to conjure a genuine smile, let his own yearning show on his face.

Mitch looks amazing. It’s not the most feminine Dylan’s seen Mitch, but it might be the most comfortable. He looks– He looks exactly like the Mitch that lives in Dylan’s memories; flushed everywhere, writhing on Dylan’s bed, utterly incandescent with need.

“Is this–,” Dylan starts asking, then clamps his mouth shut, he had promised Mitch one night and he’s going to keep it.

“So,” Mitch shifts awkwardly, gesturing towards the table. “Dinner is ready.”

“Can I kiss you?” Dylan asks at the same time, ignoring the table. It’s hard to focus on anything but Mitch.

Mitch’s breath audibly hitches and he nods. Dylan moves towards him, trying to be determined and definitely failing, his step more affected by the mere promise of kissing Mitch again than he’d like. Mitch tilts his chin up, expecting it, and as soon as Dylan is close enough Mitch’s fingers clutch onto Dylan’s hoodie sleeve and he raises to his tiptoes, so Dylan presses his lips gently to Mitch’s, his tongue dancing against Mitch’s lips until he freely parts them, his hand gripping Mitch’s waist to hold him steady.

Dylan’s been lying to himself for months, years even, claiming he remembers what it was like to have Mitch, to hold him and touch him, to give him pleasure, to coax wonderful noises from him. He didn’t remember any of it, not like this; Mitch bright and animated, so expressive every single caress of Dylan’s hands and mouth making him react.

“Baby,” Dylan sighs, leaning away from the kiss, desperate to get some air, but it’s hopeless because Mitch whines, a high, devastated sound that goes straight to Dylan’s cock, and grabs onto Dylan’s curls, pulling his head down until they’re kissing again, harder, quicker, more intent in it. Dylan slides his other hand down to lift Mitch’s nightdress, stroking over his bare ass in blind desperation mixed with sense memory.

“Fuck,” he breathes, pressing his face against Mitch’s hair, his eyes squeezed shut, just trying desperately to get a hold of everything. Mitch hides his face against Dylan’s shoulder, pushes back into Dylan’s hand with tiny, aborted movements.

Dylan wants to _ruin_ him, has a crystal clear vision of how easy it would be to turn Mitch around and bend him over the dining table, push his nightdress up and spread him wide, lick into him until Mitch is crying, all his lovely makeup running down his face. Except Mitch obviously wanted to play house, wanted to be–

Dylan moves his head up, cups Mitch’s face and angles it up until he’s staring at Dylan. It’s not safe, but it’s better, less likely for them to go downhill from here. “Dinner?” Dylan asks, still a little breathless from the kiss and the proximity of Mitch’s body.

Mitch laughs, looking playful and open. “I can always warm dinner after. Take me to bed, babe.”

Dylan kisses him again, unable to resist himself, and grabs onto his thighs, lifting Mitch up.

“You’re so fucking strong,” Mitch sighs, almost inaudible, crossing his legs behind Dylan back rearranging himself slightly until Dylan doesn’t have to carry so much of his weight. It’s sweet, and Mitch is bigger than he used to be, but Dylan is stronger now, has more muscle and he can definitely manhandle Mitch just as easily.

He carries him to the bedroom, stopping occasionally to plant small kisses on Mitch’s neck and jawline, making Mitch giggle and sigh. He puts him down once they get there though, more shock than anything else. Dylan has left his bed this morning the way he always does, a careless mess of sheets, blankets, and charger cords, but it’s all tidied up now, the bed impeccably made, more pillows on it than Dylan even knew he owned.

“You made my–,” he halts and rephrases. “You made the bed?”

Mitch nods, biting his lower lip, and scoots up the bed, Dylan idly thinks those damn socks just might give him a heart attack, he’s transfixed by the way the elastic stretches and hugs Mitch’s thighs.

He climbs on top of Mitch, pushing him into the bed, and searching for his mouth again. He bites and licks at Mitch’s mouth, letting his body canvas over Mitch’s, cover him and press him into the bed with his weight.

He cups Mitch where he is hard and straining against his nightdress while they kiss, the delicate fabric wet and ruined now, rubs until Mitch moans through the kiss, squirming and batting Dylan’s hands away.

Mitch takes his top off, one fluid motion, throwing onto the floor with a small giggle, spreading his legs obscenely so Dylan can slot between them more comfortably. Dylan pushes into Mitch with two lubed fingers, twisting them until Mitch whines, like he can’t help it.

It doesn’t take long until Dylan is pushing in, Mitch shaking beneath him, sharp nails digging into Dylan’s back, moaning through clenched teeth and–

“I miss you so much,” Dylan groans. He knows he isn’t supposed to, knows it’s not what Mitch wants to hear, but it’s bigger than him, this vast longing that he carries around with him. “Always, I–” he pants. “Everywhere I go–,”

“Don’t–,” Mitch shakes his head. “Tomorrow. Just, keep– fuck–,”

“Okay. Okay.” Dylan whispers, shifting a little so he can have more leverage, tries to find some shred of control. “Tell me.” He says instead.

“Dylan,” Mitch sobs, rocking on Dylan’s cock, trying to change it to something quicker and harder. “Fill me, please. Need you. Please. Don’t. Don’t stop.”

“So good to me,” Dylan tells him. “You’ll do everything I need, won’t you, baby?” Mitch curls around him, legs twisting around Dylan’s waist again, trying to keep him close.

“Come in me, please, Dyl. Inside– I –,” Mitch is babbling now, mindless and desperate, begging, tears filling his eyes and Dylan doesn’t have a choice but to continue, pushing this forward until there is nothing left. Mitch wants this, wants to be Dylan’s _wifey_ and it burns somewhere secret and deep in Dylan’s chest because they’ll never really have this, but he wants it, more than anything, more than even fucking hockey.

“You’re doing so well,” he growls into Mitch’s ear, hugging him close as his hips push into him, fast and furious. “You cooked, and you cleaned, and you take my cock so good, baby.”

“Please–,” Mitch keens, his entire body shaking. “Just, please, I need–,”

“Okay, baby. Okay.” Dylan gasps, trying to gentle him, tries to tilt Mitch’s head back so he can breathe easier. He can feel Mitch tighten around him, his muscles gripping Dylan’s cock as his fingers . “What do you want, baby, I’ll do–”

“Want to be yours forever,” Mitch whispers, his entire body arching forward, shaking, his cock rubbing against Dylan’s stomach . “Want to be yours– and, I– want to have your fucking babies. Dyl–,” he’s crying now, ugly desperate breaths that Dylan shouldn’t find attractive, shouldn’t want to fuck him through, but does. “Need your come in me until I can’t breathe, Dyl, I–”

Dylan grabs his head and kisses him then, it’s vicious and shocking, and Dylan doesn’t care anymore. Just needs Mitch to shut up because he can’t stand it, can’t think, the very images wrecking though his body and splitting his heart open. He wants that, as impossible as it is, Mitch round and swollen with their child, waiting in his bed every night for Dylan to come home to him, wet and sensitive and– Dylan gasps into Mitch’s mouth, barely any sound escaping him as his back arches and his muscles coil, spilling into Mitch.

Mitch throws his head back again, howls at the ceiling of Dylan’s bedroom, beautiful and terrible, going impossibly tight around Dylan’s cock, milking him further, as he sobs uncontrollably.

Dylan collapses onto his side, breathless and wrecked, but his mind is reeling. Mitch bends to kiss his hair, gentle and soft.

“Mitch,” Dylan starts, not sure what he can or should say. He doesn't if the things he needs to tell Mitch would be welcome 

“Later. Tomorrow,” Mitch repeats, patting Dylan’s shoulders and stretching his legs out from under him. “You promised me one night.”

“We didn’t even get to dinner,” Dylan huffs, trying to smile, but it sounds hollow. He feels like he wants to sleep for a month.

Mitch smiles. “It’s fine, it will keep," he brushes his hands through Dylan's hair, which makes Dylan want to stretch out like a cat. "Sleep," and then softer, gentler. "Babe.”

Dylan yawns, sleep actually sounds great. “You'll stay?” he asks. 

Mitch smiles, and Dylan feels something settle deep inside of him. _Mitch_. Here, in Dylan's bed. “Yeah, I want to cuddle now.”

Dylan smiles back, satisfied.

* * *

It's barely morning when Dylan wakes up , the bedroom is still mostly dark but Mitch is already awake, sitting cross legged on the bed, head bent and staring at his phone. He looks exactly like the hockey bro he is, no traces of softness or silk or makeup left, but he’s no less beautiful. Dylan stretches, one eye experimentally open. “I think I’m gonna go,” Mitch says carefully, his expression closed off, and Dylan scrambles to sit up.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Mitch sighs. “Thanks for doing this.”

Dylan isn’t sure what to say, he still feels groggy and raw, off kilter. “You don’t have to go.”

“I kind of have a flight to catch,” Mitch shows Dylan his phone.

Dylan blinks, trying to pull his brain to fully awake. “You,” he sighs, confused. “You said tomorrow.“

Mitch looks up then, meeting Dylan’s eyes and shrugs. He looks forlorn, almost sad. And Dylan feels awkward pushing it. Mitch does tidy the kitchen before he leaves, a row of plastic containers filling Dylan’s fridge. Dylan is well aware Mitch didn’t cook any of it himself, but he still throws all of it away.

* * *

Dylan doesn’t bother pretending he isn't waiting for Mitch to call and make sense of it, explain the entire thing, apologize for leaving leaving, and– Dylan doesn’t know what he expected to happen, but it sure wasn't this radio silence they've reverted back to. He doesn't understand how someone can say they want to be with you forever and then just disappear. It's–

They've always been too cruel to each other, but this seems too much, too careless. Mitch wouldn't just do that, say those words to mess with Dylan. He doesn’t get Mitch, doesn't get any of it, so he sits and waits for Mitch to makes a sign he wasn't disappointed with Dylan. 

He gives up on waiting after two weeks and texts Mitch to ask if he can call him.

“Hey,” Dylan says as soon as Mitch picks up.

“Hi,” Mitch answers slowly, his voice small, hesitant. “So…”

“I want to talk about the other night,” Dylan says quickly, before Mitch has an opportunity to take over the conversation, and Mitch stays silent, waiting for Dylan to continue speaking. “I guess I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. That there wasn’t anything you, you didn’t–”

Mitch sighs. “You were great, Dylan. Seriously, thank you.”

Dylan frowns, he doesn’t know how to explain he was afraid he messed up somehow, that he didn't do what Mitch needed him or didn't react quite right. 

The Dylan Mitch used to love was so sad and angry, but now Dylan is, he doesn't know exactly what he is yet, he's still working on that, but he knows he no longer walks around with the shadow of broken dreams hanging around him. He knows how to see worth in himself and his hockey by setting his own goals instead of constantly comparing himself to Connor, or Mat, or Mitch.

It’s like he no longer needs to hurt Mitch to make himself feel like Mitch wanted and needed Dylan as much as he’s always shown. He used to think that calling Mitch a slut all the time made it hot, made them fuck better, and maybe it did, maybe it helped for a while. But it also made Mitch sad, and Dylan angry, and the jealousy was eating up Dylan from inside. But he knows now he doesn’t need to do great to be happy to see Mitch succeed, not anymore, and for a moment it felt like there was so much more to them than the hurt they used to cause each other. 

“Why did you want it to be a one night thing?” Dylan asks, his heart beating fast.

“Dyl.” Mitch says warily.

“What–,”

“Don’t ask me,” Mitch’s voice is tense. “It’s not fair.”

“I just,” Dylan sighs. “It was good, right?” A silence stretches between them, long and tense. “Marns?”

“Yeah,” Mitch answers softly. “It was good.”

“You know I,” Dylan continues, because he needs to make sure Mitch knows. “I support your gender stuff.”

Mitch used to roll his eyes at the fact Dylan could never find the right words for this, and Dylan maybe wonders if that's the problem if maybe he wasn't clear on this not being an issue, ever, except Mitch says “Thanks, Dyl. It’s. You know. It's whatever.”

Dylan knows, knows Mitch won’t allow himself to really let it matter as long as there’s hockey to be played. But it doesn’t mean that Dylan can’t recognize and respect there’s more to Mitch’s fascination with lingerie, or the way his specific fascination with domesticity manifests itself. Dylan doesn’t care, he’s gone for Mitch either way, the full inexplicable, complex, ever-changing existence of him. And he doesn't know what else there is to say, except he loves Mitch, wants him back, thought Mitch had wanted that too–

“I miss you," Dylan says, because Mitch didn't let him say it then. "I miss you all the fucking time."

Mitch makes a soft sound, hurt and disappointed. “You broke up with me, Dylan."

"I know," he shuts his eyes, feeling helpless. "I'm sorry." 

Mitch sighs. "It's okay, but I don't think..."

Dylan nods, his eyes stinging. "Okay," he croaks, feeling mortified and small, so painfully wrong about everything. 

* * *

**2019-2020**

Dylan almost reaches out to Mitch again in early September, just because Connor mentions something about Mitch taking the salary negotiations a little too personally. He sends just a short text, then doesn’t hear back from Mitch anyway, so it’s really inconsequential. Except there’s a second, just one childish second, when Dylan reads somewhere the Hawks might offer-sheet him and while he knows that makes absolutely no sense, he still hopes; imagines finding a new house for the two of them and just, coming back home to each other every night.

He tries to let it go during the season, trying to keep his spot and show his worth, except it doesn’t always work. It’s a little bit of a blessing, not travelling to Toronto with the team after Mitch misses the game in Chicago. Not that it changes much since Mitch still turns up on his doorstep on the eve of the All Stars weekend.

“Don’t–” Mitch says when Dylan opens the door, his eyes big and blue and earnest. “Don’t close the door.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Dylan frowns and opens the door wider, motioning for Mitch to come in.

“I miss you all the time too,” Mitch says hastily the moment he walks in, turning around to look at Dylan. He looks earnest, nervous, and Dylan wants to take it; wants to hold Mitch and kiss every inch of his face, wants to push him on every remaining surface of his apartment and make Mitch tremble and bed. But Dylan remembers the summer, Mitch bright and touch-starved, the way he touched Dylan frenzied, how he said he needs Dylan with his words and his body, begged and cried for him and then shut him out.

Dylan sighs, and breathes in deeply, tries to let his anger dissipate, nothing left but bone-deep fatigue. “Why are you even here, Marns?”

“Why did you break up with me?” Mitch asks quietly.

Dylan can’t help but be taken aback. It’s– “Mitch.”

“Because,” Mitch continues. “I understand you were disappointed and unhappy. I would be too–”

Dylan really doesn’t want or need to hear it, rehashing ancient history when Mitch had every chance to have this conversation last summer and walked away. “Mitch.”

Mitch stops, looks up at Dylan, staring at him with wide pleading eyes. “I love you,” he says emphatically.

Dylan feels it like a slap, ruthless and harsh, “I can’t believe–" he fists his hands, annoyed and confused. "You came into my house, and you fucking made me dinner, and you said you want to have my fucking baby, Mitch.”

Mitch blushes immediately, even his nape going red at Dylan’s words. “I– I was–”

“You used me,” Dylan tells him, letting the hurt he’s been carrying around for the last few months penetrate his voice. “You took advantage of our history and my feelings for you, and you–,”

“I didn't mean to,” Mitch says frantically, reaching out to grab Dylan’s arm. “I didn’t realize you still cared. I thought– I thought you were doing me a favor–,”

“That’s a favor now?” Dylan demands. “Let’s play house for a little bit and then go back to ignoring each other?”

“No. I.” Mitch groans. “I didn’t know you weren’t pretending, that night here. I didn’t know you meant all of that.”

“I told you I missed you, I told you I wanted more.” Dylan reminds him, letting his frustration seep out. “Why would I say that if I was pretending? That makes no sense.”

“Well,” Mitch bites back. “You fucking broke up with me and that made no sense either.”

Dylan sighs. That’s not exactly untrue, but there’s more to it, but it's not– He doesn't want to waste time by going over every single reason for why he was messed up and insecure. He looks at Mitch, holding his gaze instead, he's standing so close, the last time they were this close, they were in Dylan's bed Mitch was leaving. 

“Can I–,” Mitch says and takes a step towards Dylan, reaches up as if to put his palm against Dylan’s face, but Dylan can’t let him do that now, needs a moment to get his mind in order, and he takes a step back. Mitch’s face falls, fear and shock appearing on it. “I thought–”

“No,” Dylan says quickly and then rushes to correct himself. “I mean, of course, yes. Of course, it's always a yes, Mitch,” he says, the yearning in his voice clear and sharp. “I just can’t _think_ when you’re touching me.”

“Then. Don’t think,” Mitch whispers, like he's afraid to even suggest it, as if Dylan wouldn’t find it as charming as it is infuriating.

“I–,” Dylan looks at Mitch for a long moment, eyes darting back and forth over his features, trying to remember if he’s changed since Dylan saw him in the summer. Thinks of of all the people who got to touch Mitch since then, all the people before that, before the NHL and before Dylan, and– “No other people,” Dylan says, his eyes darting back and forth over Mitch’s features as if trying to find signs of a hesitation, a telltale of a sign for things to go impossible wrong.

Mitch nods immediately. “No one else,” he promises.

“I’m serious, Mitch," Dylan insists again, as close to begging as he's willing to go in the conversation. "I can’t share anymore, it’s–”

“I don't need anyone else,” Mitch insists and takes a small step forward. Dylan doesn’t say anything, just lets his heart beat wildly in his chest, trepidatious, eager. He can see it now, the rest of their future together spread before them. It's not very clear, no specific dreams or visions, he doesn't even know how long Mitch can stay now or when he'll see Mitch the next time, let alone plan how they'll work to fit their lives together. He'd panic about it, but then Mitch inches even closer, reaches out to run his thumb over Dylan’s cheekbones, down his neck, and around his nape, pulling Dylan down until Mitch can boldly press his lips against Dylan's.

It's simple and chaste as far as kisses go, but it feels new, exciting. Mitch rubs his face into Dylan’s chest when they part and Dylan wraps his arms around him, buries his nose in Mitch’s hair and hopes. It’s not perfect, and it’s only the start really, but it’s kind, easy.

"I missed you," Dylan whispers again and holds Mitch closer, laughs when Mitch playfully bites his chest through his shirt, a jolt of pure pleasure and happiness. 

"Yeah," Mitch sighs, letting go of the now wet spot on Dylan's tshirt. "I missed you too."


End file.
